


Royal Burdens

by The_Asset6



Series: Deleted Scenes and Broken Dreams [2]
Category: Fabula Nova Crystallis: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Final Fantasy XV Prologue: Parting Ways Spoilers, Final Fantasy XV Spoilers, Final Fantasy XV: Brotherhood Spoilers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Platinum Demo Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:15:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9218510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: There are those who say the weight of a crown is the greatest in all the world. How heavy, then, is the weight that bears down on those doomed to watch over him?***Spoilers for episodes one and five of the “Brotherhood” anime, the Platinum Demo, and the “Parting Ways” prologue novel.





	1. The Unimaginable

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! Before reading ahead, please take note of the spoiler tags above. Although there will be no late-game spoilers this time around, there _will_ be spoilers for every other entry in the FFXV universe and some early events of great importance. If you haven't watched the "Brotherhood" anime or read the "Parting Ways" prologue novel (which is available for free download from the official FFXV site and well worth the read), please bear in mind that there will be **MAJOR** spoilers ahead. 
> 
> This installment will be entirely from Ignis's point of view. You will notice that he is awfully mature for his age, which I wasn't sure about until a particular side quest in Lestallum confirmed that yes, he _has_ always been like this. 
> 
> As an aside, the title of this chapter is inspired by the song "It's Quiet Uptown" from the musical "Hamilton." If you haven't listened to it, I highly recommend doing so; it's very appropriate for this chapter in terms of both tone and content.

Ignis woke with a start to the sounds of running feet and shouting voices, positive that he hadn’t been asleep for long. He was proven correct a moment later when, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned to see the clock on his bedside table telling him he’d only gone to bed an hour ago. It was relatively early in the evening, he knew, but still well past the hour that the Citadel should be so active.

Perhaps _active_ wasn’t the right word— _uproar_ seemed far more appropriate as the hysteria outside his room only increased in volume. Frowning perplexedly, Ignis snatched his glasses from the nightstand and donned them as he hastened to open the door.

On the other side, everything was madness.

Guards were always stationed on this floor, tasked with protecting the prince at all costs should some misfortune befall Insomnia and the Citadel become compromised. As Noctis’s future advisor ( _in training_ ), Ignis was kept close by for more than just supervision. At ten years old, he was only two years the prince’s senior, and they’d become fast friends not long after meeting when Ignis was first inducted into the program. Being close was convenient for their friendship, although there were practical reasons as well: the more time they spent together, the closer they would become and the more effective their working relationship would be by the time they grew up.

At least, that was what Ignis’s instructors always said. He had his reservations, especially on days when Noct wanted to go play and poked fun at Ignis’s excuses of _homework_ and _lessons_ and _boring stuff_ like that. No matter how many times he reminded the prince, Noct never seemed to grasp the fact that Ignis was here to do a good job—if he didn’t, who knew if they would try to find someone else? That would be the end of not only his future, but probably his friendship with Noct as well.

That had been his prevailing concern earlier that day when Noct had come bounding into his room expecting him to drop his studies and go exploring with him (and his security detail, of course) on the outskirts of Insomnia. It had been difficult to say no; after all, he’d slaved away over a report about the Old Wall for the better part of three days and desperately needed the break. Still, he’d turned the prince down. His instructors didn’t say he was mature beyond his years for nothing, and it was his responsibility to finish his obligations before he sought out the fun side of living in the Citadel. (Much as he secretly would have loved to go, not that he was about to tell Noct that.)

From the looks of things, it appeared that the prince had yet to return from his adventure, but his room was bustling with activity nonetheless. Guards were sweeping in and out, hustling in every direction as they ran to and from the elevators. Just inside the door, he could spy two of the court doctors speaking in hushed, almost panicked voices as they set intimidating medical supplies out on Noct’s bedside table.

Ignis stared blankly until he wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing in his doorway, gawping at the scene before him. It wasn’t until he heard his name called by a clear, collected voice that he shook himself from his stupor and peeked down the corridor to see the Marshal watching him with stern eyes.

_Oh, no…_

With no small degree of trepidation, Ignis made his way down the hall towards him, attempting to stay as close to the wall as possible lest he get run over by one of the adults in their hurry.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” the Marshal pointed out, although there was little in the way of a rebuke in his tone.

Nervously scuffing his socked foot against the marble floor, Ignis struggled to maintain eye contact ( _a sign of strength_ , his instructors had told him) as he explained, “I heard the noise, Marshal. What’s happening?”

He thought for a second that asking was a step too far. Certainly, the Marshal didn’t appear pleased with him for doing so and stared at him with an expression Ignis wasn’t able to read. It wasn’t often that he _could_ decipher Cor Leonis’s thoughts (despite his talent for doing so with pretty much everyone else), but today he was particularly inscrutable. It took a long time for the Marshal to say anything, but Ignis waited in obedient silence under the weight of those piercing eyes, reminding himself of what he’d learned in his lessons:

His job was to learn, not to interrogate.

His job was to ask, not to demand.

His place was behind and to the side, not at the fore.

 _You’d do well to remember that_ , he repeated silently, hearing his instructor’s voice in his head like they were standing beside him. After all these years, he had it committed to memory and—usually—acted on his lessons without a second thought.

It was difficult, however, when the guards were behaving as though they were under attack.

Somehow, he managed to hold his tongue long enough that he began to wonder whether he would be getting an answer to his question at all. It was only after an agonizingly immeasurable moment that the Marshal eased his stance and sighed, though his expression lost nothing of its severity. For a man so young, Cor the Immortal looked…well, _old_.

“Maybe it’s better that you see,” he muttered, seemingly more to himself than Ignis, “so you know what you’re up against.”

Frowning, Ignis could only inquire, “Sir?”

The Marshal didn’t appear to be listening, however. Instead, he nodded once as though deciding something important and ordered, “Come with me,” before setting a rapid pace towards the elevators.

Not one to need telling twice, Ignis hastened to follow in his wake. If he thought he would get more information, though, he was sadly mistaken. The Marshal didn’t say another word as they stepped into one of the lifts and descended to the lobby.

When the doors slid open, it was to reveal a scene even more chaotic than upstairs. The entrance was filled with enough guards that Ignis really _was_ beginning to think they were under attack. If it weren’t for the fact that the king maintained the Wall—another thing he’d had to learn a lot about for Noct’s benefit—it would have been a feasible idea. Every inch of space was crowded with Citadel guards, members of the Crownsguard, and even the Kingsglaive, all of whom were armed as if awaiting orders to fight.

Before Ignis had a chance to open his mouth to ask what was going on once more, the Marshal was off, and his feet slipped and slid on the smooth marble as he hurried to keep up. Ignis stayed close behind him as they wound their way through the throng towards the front entrance, where more of the Kingsglaive and the higher members of King Regis’s court were waiting tensely on the front stairs.

The Marshal paused for a moment, quickly scanning the crowd before spotting his goal and making a beeline for Clarus Amicitia, the King’s Shield himself.

“Clarus,” he called out when they were but a few feet away. “Have they arrived yet?”

Master Clarus shook his head somberly, the corners of his lips turned down. “They should be here any minute now. Are the preparations complete?”

“Everyone is in place.”

“Very good.” The King’s Shield paused, his eyes alighting on Ignis for the first time, and the latter saw a flicker of disquiet cross his face. “Cor, are you certain it is appropriate for the boy to see?”

“He needs to be ready,” was all the Marshal replied, and Master Clarus reluctantly left it at that with a frown of mild disapproval. There was a tiny bubble of pride that inflated in Ignis’s chest at the confidence _Cor the_ _Immortal_ was showing in him, but it didn’t last long.

As if on cue, the squealing of tires rent the air above the quiet murmuring of the assemblage. All voices fell silent and all heads turned in the direction of the main gates, where three of the Citadel cars were racing towards them.

Ordering Ignis to stay put, the Marshal moved forward with Master Clarus as all three automobiles screeched to a halt at the foot of the staircase. The rear door of the middle vehicle opened before it had come to a full stop, and King Regis emerged with a frantic gleam in his eyes that Ignis had never seen him exhibit before. His normally calm, confident, unflappable aura was conspicuously absent tonight. In its place was a soul-consuming hopelessness, as if the Wall had come crashing down and washed the world away along with it. In the back of his mind, Ignis registered that he had never witnessed their seemingly infallible leader appearing _less_ like royalty, regardless of his kingly raiment. Despite the directive that he _should_ have obeyed, Ignis’s curiosity had him advancing a few steps as the king swept around and ducked back inside the car.

“Gently,” Ignis could just barely hear someone saying. “Watch his head.”

A moment later, he understood what was going on without truly comprehending it in the least.

The Marshal and Master Clarus shifted out of the way to give Ignis a clear view of the king where he was straightening back to his full height, Noct held closely in his arms. For the slightest fraction of an instant, Ignis was able to convince himself that nothing was wrong, that Noctis must have fallen asleep in the car on their way back and King Regis was taking him upstairs to bed without waking him.

Then he saw the blood.

It was everywhere. His T-shirt, his vest, his pants—everything was stained a deep, deadly red. Blood-soaked bandages were wrapped tightly around his right arm and peeked out from beneath the leg of his pants, not that they were doing much good: Noct’s life was dripping out from underneath, running down his limbs and spattering the ground at the king’s feet. What little Ignis could see of his face was almost translucently pale, the only signs of color coming from cuts across his cheek and a line of blood dribbling down from beneath his hair.

The prince looked like death, but the king was the one who appeared to be dying.

“Clarus, the doctors?” he demanded breathlessly. Ignis distantly noted that it had nothing to do with Noct’s insubstantial weight.

“Waiting in the prince’s room,” Master Clarus immediately replied, trailing behind him as King Regis practically ran up the stairs to the entrance. The Marshal motioned for Ignis to follow, which he somehow managed despite the sudden numbness in his legs, and Master Clarus spared one brief glance back at the cars before tentatively asking, “Where are the other survivors, Your Majesty?”

It seemed to take an eternity for the king to pause on the threshold of the Citadel and turn to look at his Shield, eyes heavier with the weight of his burden than his arms. Ignis was unsurprised when he answered, “There were no other survivors.”

With that, King Regis spun on his heel and led the way through the now silent lobby of the Citadel. Bodies moved out of the way left and right to offer them unimpeded passage, and the assembled guards watched with wide, sympathetic eyes as the king strode past them with all the dignity he could muster. None of it was for himself, that much was clear: it was for his son, who needed him to be strong now more than ever.

If it were him, Ignis wasn’t sure he would have had the fortitude to do the same. How could someone carry the person they loved more than anything through a crowded room and _not_ show how much it bothered them that they were hurt—that they might be dying? And King Regis _did_ love Noct more than anything, in spite of the prince’s statements to the contrary. Ignis couldn’t entirely blame him: it was difficult to see your father when the king kept standing in the way, but to all others, it was obvious that the king adored his son more than his throne—more than his very _kingdom_ —more than life itself.

And now he might have to watch the object of his adoration and the last of his bloodline perish before his eyes.

Swallowing hard, Ignis fought to keep that thought out of his head as he accompanied the trio into the first empty elevator they reached and began the journey back up to their floor of the Citadel. It was almost as though the Marshal had forgotten he was present, and the king obviously had other matters monopolizing his attention. Master Clarus, however, shot him a quick look of discomfort that reminded Ignis he had his own son, a year older than Ignis was, who would someday serve as Noct’s shield just as his father had for King Regis. At least, if there was any justice in this world, he would.

Ignis had thought the elevator couldn’t go any slower before, but it appeared determined to prove him wrong as it took a veritable eternity to sound their arrival. As soon as the doors were open wide enough, the king slipped through, careful to avoid bumping Noct’s feet or head against the metal. If it weren’t for the fact that jostling Noct was likely to make things worse, Ignis thought he would have run down the corridor to the prince’s room. As it was, he nevertheless made it there in record time, and Ignis found himself waiting in the doorway with the Marshal as the doctors began their work.

Time slowed down while he watched them settle Noct on his stomach, pull up his shirt, and stare at the deep slice from his ribs to his tailbone. Ignis felt like a heavy weight was sitting on his chest, forcing him to take uneven, shallow breaths that could probably match the ones the prince was only just managing. There was so much red _everywhere_ that he could hardly imagine there was any left where it was supposed to be. It seeped out from the cut and rolled down to stain the sheets in fat, dense droplets. The air around him reeked of liquid metal, making it all the more difficult to breathe even as his eyes began to lose their focus on the scene unfolding before him. It took too long for him to realize that his blurred vision wasn’t due to a problem with his glasses, but the tears misting over his eyes yet refusing to fall all the same. Perhaps they were taunting him, or maybe they were simply trying to spare him the sight of his friend—his _future_ —lying prone while the doctors did what they could to stem the flow of his life as it slowly leaked from its vessel.

“To serve royalty is a burden.”

Futilely attempting to blink the dampness from his eyes, Ignis tore his gaze from his prince to see the Marshal’s towering form beside him. He’d always cut an impressive figure whenever Ignis saw him, exuding power and security with every breath he took. Although his presence had never failed to inspire awe in Ignis, he felt nothing in that moment but the numbness of loss and the potential to lose even more.

Without so much as glancing in Ignis’s direction to see if he was listening, the Marshal continued, “It’s a burden that rivals even the king’s, one you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life.”

Ignis nodded slowly, but the Marshal wasn’t finished. This time, he turned and waited for Ignis to meet his eyes before he cautioned, “You will live in constant fear for your king. For your friend,” he added, his voice softer.

Unable to maintain his silence a moment longer, Ignis heard his own broken voice blurt out, “How do you do it?”

“By learning to live with that fear and turning it into action,” he replied with a confidence born of surviving the same grief Ignis was growing acquainted with for longer than the latter could fathom.

This was what he had signed up for, though. His instructors had warned him of that on countless occasions. Maybe it made him foolish, but he’d thought it would be many years before he would need to worry about any threat to Noctis. He was still a child—in spite of the praise Ignis received from his elders, they _both_ were—and who would want to harm someone so small? That was for the king to concern himself with, and the time for Noct to take the throne was far off.

 _Not far enough_ , he mused miserably. Yes, he’d been foolish not to listen to his instructors, and his price was his lack of preparation for the sight before him.

But no more. In that moment, as Ignis pulled in a deep and shuddering breath, he made a promise not only to himself, but to the prince he’d sworn to serve until his dying day: he would be prepared. He would shoulder the same burden Cor the Immortal had and emerge victorious. There was no decision to be made, no choice lying before him. There was only a boy who was destined to one day become king, and Ignis would do everything in his power to ensure he lived to see it.

So, he fought the tears. He fought the despair. He fought the urge to go back to his room and pretend Noct would come bother him about playing in the morning—whenever it was he deigned to get out of bed.

Instead, Ignis held his chin up high and straightened his shoulders as he turned to watch the doctors frantically putting his friend’s pieces back together.


	2. Guiding Lights

“There is something dark at work here.”

That was all the doctors knew. For days, the king had sat beside Noct’s bed while they poked and prodded and tried to determine why the prince couldn’t be roused. It was all to no avail: after nearly a week, the only thing they knew with any surety was that _something dark_ was at work—something beyond their skill to heal. No matter what they tried, Noct never once stirred. His wounds had been mended, sewn tightly shut and wrapped in bandages until the right side of his body was hardly visible for the dressings. They’d given him potions and smelling salts and phoenix downs—every available medicinal remedy had failed to produce the desired effect. Noct remained comatose, and there was no telling why.

When they first informed King Regis, Ignis had been there. Hardly a moment passed that he _wasn’t_ , at least if he had no lessons or other obligations to be dealt with. (For the first time in his life, he’d thought seriously about skiving off and letting his responsibilities slide. It was thanks to force of habit itself that he didn’t make such a dreadful yet appealing mistake.) Long hours had been spent standing in the doorway, making sure he wasn’t in the way while simultaneously keeping a close watch on his friend. There was always someone else in the room with them: doctors, the Marshal, advisers to the king, members of the Crownsguard. Ignis sometimes found himself wondering if it was such a terrible thing that Noct was unaware of what was happening around him: the claustrophobia would be enough to get to anyone after a while.

The king, however, never seemed to notice. He took everything in stride and watched over his son as though no one else in the world existed. His aides brought him meals and fresh clothes each day, and those moments of necessary hygiene were the only times he was away from Noct’s side, although he remained close enough that those few minutes were negligible. Advisers came to provide him with his daily briefings and get his signatures on the documents he was required to peruse, but King Regis hardly paid them more attention than the sun as it rose and fell in the distance beyond the window. His kingdom—the only kingdom that _truly_ mattered—lay in ruins before him, and it had his undivided attention despite his helplessness to save it.

Which was why the news of the doctors’ impotence seemed to draw him from his secluded shell.

“Daemons wield the darkness,” he had replied tonelessly to the doctors’ hesitant diagnosis. “Of course it is at work here.”

The doctors had exchanged a nervous glance, but King Regis hadn’t given them the opportunity to speak.

“Can you do anything for him?”

Swallowing anxiously, one of the doctors had quietly explained, “We’ve done all we can, Your Majesty. His wounds are treated—the physical ones, at least. Until he wakes, we will not know the full extent of the damage to his spine. He may…”

“He may never walk again,” finished the other when his colleague appeared either unable or unwilling to go on.

From his seemingly permanent post in the doorway, Ignis had felt his lungs constrict at those words. Never walk again? Noctis? It couldn’t happen. He was so lively, so determined to live life to the fullest even in the face of his royal responsibilities—many of which he shirked regardless, but the fact remained. To imagine Noct, with his bright eyes and quick smile, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life…

Well, the slightly ill expression on the king’s face adequately personified his own emotions, as well.

After that, the doctors were released from their round-the-clock observation. There was no point in them being there, not when they could do nothing for the prince but stare and review the same evidence over and over and _over_ again. Aides still came and went, though, and many of King Regis’s advisers would sit in silence with him to offer their wordless support.

For Ignis, the world had gone dark. He hadn’t realized before just _how_ _much_ time he spent with Noctis, whether during shared studies (or, more accurately, _Ignis_ studying and _trying_ to get Noct to pay attention) or just playing around the Citadel together. It all came crashing down upon him as more time passed without hearing that small but oh so _big_ voice calling to him from the other side of the hall or seeing that tiny hand waving as he ran into the throne room to see his father. The quiet Ignis had pined for so frequently was oppressive now, making it difficult to breathe for fear that this silence would never cease.

Visiting Noct hardly made it any better, yet Ignis could do nothing less. He adhered to his vow, both to himself and the royal family, that he would remain by the prince’s side until either he died or was released from service. A coma counted as neither.

That was how he came to find himself alone with King Regis for the first time.

It was late, far later than Ignis was supposed to be awake. No one had yet rebuked him for it, though, and he was well aware that his instructors knew where he spent many an evening these days. Ignis supposed that their tolerance would eventually wane; he would only be able to maintain such a schedule for so long until it began to negatively impact his studies, after all. Regardless, he slipped across the corridor and poked his head into Noctis’s room all the same. If his midnight wanderings were destined to come to an end, he would make full use of each moment until then.

In all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. After over a week, he hardly expected to peer in and see Noct sitting up, wide awake. Perhaps it was just to reassure himself that the prince was still _breathing_ —such a thing was not guaranteed and therefore well worth checking into.

Tonight, the scene wasn’t a great deal different than any other: Noct, pale beneath his covers, and King Regis slumped in a chair beside the bed. The prince’s chest rose and fell evenly as life continued to move in and out of his lungs; his hair was flattened to the pillow beneath it like a dark halo, framing his features and giving him a wan look that had no business on his face. If Ignis took one comfort from the sight, it was that Noct didn’t appear to be in any pain: his face was blank, and if it weren’t for the fact that he couldn’t wake up, he may very well have been sleeping.

The only difference in the room tonight was that King Regis was alone for once. Usually there was a steady stream of attendants and guards coming to bring him this news or that briefing, but for the first time since that fateful night, the king had no one else in the room attempting to garner his attention. Rather, he was quite absorbed in his thoughts, turning something over in his hands that Ignis couldn’t see from the doorway. He didn’t seem to register his presence at first, which Ignis was unspeakably grateful for, and he carefully began to back his way out of the room when—

“You don’t have to leave, Ignis.”

He froze in place, hazarding a glance to see King Regis still staring at what he was holding but sitting up straighter now. In Noctis’s words: _busted_.

Clearing his throat cautiously, Ignis respectfully bowed his head. “My apologies for interrupting you, Your Majesty.”

The king made a sound like a chuckle and finally looked up at him. His eyes were indescribably sad and far too exhausted, but there was a tiny glimmer of humor there that told Ignis he wasn’t in trouble— _much_ trouble, in any case.

“You’re hardly interrupting anything,” he sighed, waving a hand towards the chair on the opposite side of the bed. Master Clarus often took up residence there when he wasn’t dealing with matters the king was too preoccupied to manage, but it was quite empty at this hour. “Please, sit. You have as much right to be here as I do.”

 _I don’t know about_ that _…_

It didn’t do to argue with his king, however, so Ignis nodded his thanks and obeyed. There was something _worse_ about the situation once he was sitting closer, and as he turned to face his royal company, his heart fell into his stomach to witness Noct in such a state. From the door, he couldn’t tell how dry and chapped his friend’s lips were; he hadn’t noticed the way every vein in his arm was visible just below the surface. He hadn’t looked so _sick_ from afar.

Admittedly, his father was hardly any better. He was pale, his hair lank and mussed where he’d run his hands through it in frustrated concern far too many times. The kindness in his eyes had been all but extinguished, replaced with something hard and fearful that Ignis never thought he was capable of feeling. King Regis was everything the leader of a state should be—or so he’d always thought. To look at him now was to see a father, not royalty, and this patriarch was suffering horribly in the face of his son’s unforeseeable fate.

Some of his thoughts must have been plain on his face, because one corner of the king’s mouth turned up in a smirk as he remarked, “Indeed, I have looked better.”

Blinking, Ignis hastened to reassure him, “No, Your Majesty, not at a—!”

“It’s all right,” the king waved him off good-naturedly, that little smile still in place. “I’ve been reliably informed that I look like quite the mess right now—hardly something you would expect from your king.”

 _Can he…read thoughts?_ Ignis almost shook his head at his own idiocy. _Preposterous. Don’t be absurd._

“Your Majesty has more important concerns to address than your attire,” Ignis blurted out before he could stop the words from spilling forth. He snapped his mouth shut immediately, his teeth clicking together in his haste, but the king didn’t appear offended by his speaking out of turn. If anything, he actually seemed to find it _funny_.

Chuckling softly, his eyes flicked fondly to the prince as he murmured, “So I do. Your honesty is refreshing. I do hope you behave as such with my son.”

That brought a smile to Ignis’s face, albeit a microscopic one. The sensation of his lips lifting and cheeks shifting felt so foreign after such a long week. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’m afraid he doesn’t always appreciate it, though.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” grinned the king. He shook his head, an amused gleam in his eyes as he turned back to Ignis and continued, “Between the two of us, _that_ is the true way to keep royalty in check. Honesty,” he added in response to Ignis’s confused frown.

“I’m…not sure I understand,” he admitted slowly, hoping he sounded as apologetic as he felt. King Regis nodded tolerantly and settled back in his seat again.

“Of course. You are still young,” he murmured softly, raising his voice so Ignis could hear him when he pressed on. “A king’s duty is to his people. He must know what his subjects need, and in turn, he requires an honest assessment of his own actions as he seeks to fulfill those needs. It is a thing many take for granted— _honesty_ —and yet it is the most valuable gift a king can receive. It helps you to grow and learn how to be a better leader for your people, whether that means your court promoting a legal amendment or just Captain Drautos calling you a fool for wearing an unflattering tie.”

“He did that?!” Ignis couldn’t help but giggle past his awe, and the king smiled.

“Yes, he did. I admit, he was quite right—the color was abhorrent with my complexion.” He allowed Ignis a moment to laugh, chortling a bit himself, before he sighed heavily and continued, “Kings are human, like anyone else. It is important to be reminded of that from time to time.”

His tone turned mournful as his eyes fell once again on Noct, the spark of amusement dowsed in the weight of his grief. Just like that, the world came crashing down once again, leaving a father and a friend huddled over a broken boy—in their silent misery, they were nearly equals.

Ignis had just decided that perhaps he’d overstayed his welcome when his eyes fell on something blue in the king’s lap and he frowned, tilting his head to the side. He recognized that figurine, but where…?

“Carbuncle,” he realized, his voice filled with wonder.

King Regis looked over at him, nodding once before glancing down at the blue fox in his hand. “I see you haven’t neglected your studies.”

“No, Your Majesty,” agreed Ignis (perhaps a _little_ indignantly). “I don’t think I’ve seen his likeness outside of books.”

“You wouldn’t,” confirmed the king. He turned the pink-horned trinket over in his hand a few times before he spoke again. “Do you remember who Carbuncle is?”

Without hesitation, Ignis recited, “An Astral tasked with protecting the weak and the lost.”

“Among others.”

“If I remember correctly, he is one of the only Astrals to have no physical presence in Eos.”

The king took a deep breath and nodded once more. “So it has been written. There are many who claim to have seen him in times of need.”

“Do you…” Ignis paused, not sure if he would be overstepping his bounds to ask, but the king motioned for him to finish his question. “Do you believe them?”

For a moment, King Regis hesitated, seemingly lost in thought. When he finally answered, it was in a wistful tone. “I believe the Astrals are capable of a great many things. It would be unwise to discount any mention of their presence, however improbable it may be.”

Ignis supposed that made sense, although he wasn’t quite sure himself. If all the scholars in Eos had yet to find substantive proof that Carbuncle was out there, it was unlikely that they were speaking from a lack of attention to such stories. In any case, Ignis wasn’t about to argue over ideology with the king, nor was he given the opportunity.

“The kings of Lucis have long maintained a connection with the Astrals, going back many generations,” he indicated, a wry smile briefly lighting up his features. He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Except the Infernian, of course. He’s a fickle sort.”

Snorting, Ignis nodded. After all, the Infernian was to blame for betraying his fellow Astrals, causing a war to end all wars (in a manner of speaking), and spawning the Starscourge that once ravaged Eos and all who lived there. All things considered, he _wasn’t_ the god Ignis would have wanted to be on good terms with anyway.

Casting it one final glance, the king reached out to gingerly place the figurine on Noct’s pillow beside his head.

“Carbuncle, however, is loyal. He is kind. He is a protector against dark dreams.”

By the end of his statement, the king’s voice had fallen to almost nothing, and Ignis only just heard him as he reclined back in his seat. They fell silent for such a long time that Ignis wondered if this was King Regis’s way of dismissing him. There was one last question, however, that refused to vacate the tip of his tongue. It was not his job to demand answers, and yet…the king had offered him such great latitude already that he thought one last inquiry would not be unwelcome.

So, gathering his nerve, Ignis quietly asked, “Do you think Carbuncle will bring Noct back to us?”

There was a long pause. It drew out almost to the point of becoming uncomfortable, but Ignis received no rebuke. Rather, King Regis looked pensive, as though he wasn’t sure of the answer or how to verbalize it. When he eventually met Ignis’s eyes again, there was something there that had been missing over the course of the last few days: _courage_ and _hope_.

“I believe Noct will find his own way back,” replied King Regis with the ghost of a smile. “He simply needs a light to guide him home.”

 

***

 

It was bound to happen eventually. Sadly, Ignis hadn’t wanted it to be so soon.

“You will be working with Master Clarus’s son on defense today,” his instructor told him as soon as he arrived for his lessons. Before he swept out of the room, he’d ordered Ignis to stay put and wait—for how long, he didn’t say.

Ignis knew it was necessary. Defense would be integral to his job not only as Noct’s adviser, but his protector as well should the need arise. Learning how to defend himself and others—and, therefore, how to fight—had always been on the docket. That didn’t stop him from thinking that it was someone’s clever idea to get him out of his own head, however, given that he’d heard absolutely nothing about beginning such training before that day.

There was nothing to be done for it, however, except go through the motions. He was mildly ashamed to say that he thought it was a waste of time, but it had nothing to do with the content itself. It was just that his mind wasn’t in it—his _heart_ wasn’t in it. Life at the Citadel had yet to go back to normal, not when the prince had been absent in spirit for long enough now that whispers had begun to circulate regarding whether he would ever wake up at all. King Regis still maintained his vigil at Noct’s side, albeit with more meetings held in the room now that they couldn’t be avoided; the court was still being led by Master Clarus until the king returned. Outside the Citadel, no one was the wiser—the king had been very careful not to let word of Noct’s injury reach the press—but inside? It felt like swimming through sludge or sinking into a quagmire of dismay. The clock had stopped, so why should his studies move forward?

Despite the king’s hopes, Carbuncle didn’t appear to have done anything for Noct. Ignis spent many a night with King Regis after their conversation; sometimes they talked in low voices while other nights were passed merely waiting with more pleasant company than their own thoughts, but the prince never stirred. When Ignis finally went to bed each night, he felt increasingly downhearted until he was beginning to find little hope left. He didn’t dare to tell King Regis that, though. Part of him wanted to trust his king and believe that he was right, that Noct would find his way back—but there was also a time to be realistic, and things weren’t looking good.

Perhaps that was why his instructors had set up this impromptu defense lesson. It was no secret that Gladiolus Amicitia was an excellent warrior even at the age of eleven, and if Ignis was going to avoid looking like an utter fool in his presence, he was going to need to be focused on the task at hand. It was much easier said than done, but he refused to be made _second_ best. He’d always been first, and he’d taken pride in it as the future adviser to the king, so he wasn’t willing to be demoted to silver. Not while he had anything to say about it.

 _Easier said than done indeed,_ he mused silently when the door to the training room swung open to reveal the _largest_ adolescent he had ever seen. Ignis was hardly a year younger than Gladiolus, and yet they were so different that he was hard pressed to find similarities.

Where Ignis was slender, Gladiolus was thick.

Where Ignis was tall, Gladiolus was mountainous.

Where Ignis had sinew, Gladiolus had _pure muscle_.

 _What gods did his father pray to for him to look like_ that _?!_

So shocking was the difference between them that Ignis didn’t realize they were being introduced until his instructor snapped his name. Ignis quickly shook himself, offering an apologetic smile before inclining his head.

“I’m Ignis. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Amicitia.”

There was a snort of derision, then his opponent muttered, “You definitely grew up here. Forget the _master_ stuff—it’s Gladio.”

“Right…” Ignis glanced up, quirking an eyebrow as he verified that this wasn’t some test of his royal manners. “As you wish, Gladio.”

The latter nodded resolutely before shifting gears and, in the blink of an eye, getting down to business. He strode forward with all the confidence of the most experienced members of the Kingsglaive and asserted, “They said we should work on hand-to-hand for your first time. I guess they didn’t want you to get hurt using any weapons.”

Ignis wasn’t able to restrain the noise of indignant protest that managed to find its way past his lips; his jaw practically crashed to the marble floor. Eyes wide and appropriately rankled, he shot back, “I’m quite capable of utilizing weapons. Perhaps they did not want _you_ to feel inadequate by comparison.”

Gladio’s bark of laughter was the only response he offered, which did absolutely nothing for Ignis’s pride whatsoever. His bravado lit a fire in the pit of Ignis’s stomach, though, one he was very willing to feed with the humiliation of his opponent as soon as the opening presented itself.

“You know how to wrestle?” Gladio asked without preamble, moving to stand in front of Ignis with his fists planted on his hips.

Frowning, Ignis tried not to look as uneducated on the matter as he felt (and undoubtedly _was_ ) when he coolly responded, “I’m quite familiar with the theory, yes.”

The grin Gladio leveled at him resembled that of a predator before a meal. It was a difficult thought to force aside in favor of paying attention, but he managed it a bit easier when Gladio adopted a fighting stance and held his hands out to both sides.

“Then show me what you’ve got, Iggy.”

And he did. He simply hadn’t realized just how _little_ he had.

Ignis barely had a chance to charge forward before strong arms caught him around the neck, spun him around, and he was suddenly on his ass.

Groaning in pain, he rubbed his back and glared up at Gladio, who was staring down at him with unconcealed disappointment.

“I thought you said you knew how to wrestle.”

“I do,” lied Ignis, staggering up onto his feet again despite the ache in his lower back from how hard he’d hit the floor. He raised his fists and insisted, “I wasn’t prepared, that’s all.”

It was quite obvious Gladio didn’t believe a word he said, but he was kind enough not to call him on it as he moved back into his own stance and waited.

This time, Ignis tried to put his prior training to use in this new scenario. He observed the way Gladio stood—feet spread, but not wide enough to throw off his center of gravity, arms raised just high enough to block a frontal assault—and considered his own mistakes the first time around. He’d gone for Gladio’s middle, which was where he was most heavily guarded. If he tried aiming for his legs instead…

He would end up on his face, as he found out a moment later.

Gladio’s laughter rang in his ears, and Ignis clenched his fists as he pushed himself onto his knees and glowered at the far wall.

“Seriously, you haven’t got a clue how to fight, do ya? What do they _teach_ you here, anyway?”

“How to use more than just brute force!” exclaimed Ignis, on his feet before he realized he’d moved. In spite of the obvious difference in their heights, he felt momentarily larger than Gladio— _stronger_.

His opponent was unfazed, though, and very clearly unimpressed. “Yeah. Lotta good that’s gonna do you when you and the prince are surrounded by enemy soldiers, huh?”

“As his adviser, I would ensure he never found himself in that position to begin with.”

“Sounds realistic.”

With a growl of frustration, Ignis spun on his heel, grabbed the books he’d brought with him today (thinking that he would have a _useful_ and _worthwhile_ lesson), and stomped towards the door. A large, firm hand on his bicep stopped him before he made it more than a few steps, and he whirled around to glare up at Gladio. Distantly, he noted that it was _excellent_ his instructor had left the two of them alone; otherwise, he undoubtedly would have been incensed at Ignis’s less than courteous behavior.

“Is there something else you needed, Master Amicitia?” demanded Ignis through gritted teeth, his manners counteracted by the venom he injected into every syllable.

Gladio didn’t speak for a long minute, just staring down at him with an inscrutable expression that nearly rivaled the Marshal’s. If it weren’t for the tight grip he kept on Ignis’s arm, the latter would have broken free and left him standing there despite the curiosity beginning to take root. What could the son of the King’s Shield possibly have to say to him? It would be a long time before they needed to work together for the sake of the king— _if Noct survives_ , he couldn’t avoid remembering—but there was hardly a reason for them to be more than civil right now. They definitely didn’t need to have a conversation, not when Gladio was only interested in making Ignis look like a fool.

Not when Gladio was only serving to remind him just how ill-prepared he was to serve the future king.

After an interminable moment, Gladio gently released him, but Ignis still stood rooted to the spot. It was another minute before Gladio spoke, his voice much quieter than it had been and missing the braggadocio.

“You’ve got a lot to learn,” he began with a tentativeness that took Ignis by surprise and began to cool his temper. “But I can show you how to fight.”

Ignis blinked once—twice—then demanded, “Why?”

Shrugging, Gladio reasonably observed, “A king’s gotta have a shield _and_ a sword, right? He’s no good with just one.”

 _“You will be more than a mere adviser to the future king,”_ Ignis heard his instructor telling him from the distance of his memories. _“For all that you seek to protect him through words, you will continue to do so through actions. He will meet his Shield one day, but you shall be his Glaive. Where the Shield will aim to protect, you will endeavor to strike out at his enemies from a position of strength. You will use your knowledge to do this, yes, but you will also use your body. By becoming the king’s adviser, you become a sword designed to smite down his enemies. Do you understand?”_

At the time, he’d indicated that he did. Maybe…he should have thought harder before coming to that conclusion. Perhaps he should have swallowed his pride on that day so that he wouldn’t have to do so now, with Gladio’s understanding eyes watching him.

“All right,” he answered timidly. The tension between them evaporated instantly when he set his books down and, with all the determination he could muster, inquired, “Where do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few clarifications:
> 
> 1\. The Carbuncle figurine is featured in both the Platinum Demo and "Brotherhood" as a charm King Regis uses while Noct is comatose to protect and guide him. I took a few creative liberties with the rest of the information on Carbuncle as we receive very little in canon. Given that Carbuncle doesn't appear outside of photos (unless you are playing on easy mode) and isn't seen by the rest of the party, his supposed absence in Eos seemed to make sense.  
> 2\. After scouring the Ultimania and various other sources, I have not yet seen when it is that Ignis meets Gladio. This is therefore some speculation on my part based on the fact that Gladio doesn't start training with the Crownsguard until he is thirteen (according to the Ultimania), which is when he meets Noctis, two years after this story takes place. If he knew Ignis before this point, it would have stood to reason that he would have been familiar with Noctis as well, which clearly isn't the case.  
> 3\. The mention of the Infernian (Ifrit) is based on the history of Eos in both the Ultimania and official game guide.


	3. The Royals' Keeper

Honestly, Ignis would never know what persuaded him to do it—what made him think he had the _right_. There were, of course, far better and more talented retainers who were trained in the art, yet he took it upon himself to see to the task. It was beyond arrogant, beyond idiotic—

And, surprisingly, rather delicious.

Ignis plated his dish with the same care and attention to detail that he had created it with. Admittedly, it was rather different than anything he’d seen served in the Citadel before, and far simpler than the spectacular meals he’d watched being prepared on a daily basis. That didn’t make it any less decent in terms of taste, however, and he thought perhaps the nature of the situation would lend his attempt some leeway.

Not that there was anything at all amiss regarding how his mystery meat sushi had turned out. Quite the contrary: it had just the right balance of ingredients. Given that it was literally rice, cheese, and whatever the meat was on the lowest shelf (hence: _mystery_ ) wrapped in seaweed, it was rather difficult to mess up.

With that comforting thought in mind, Ignis carried his precious creation out of the kitchens toward the elevator, careful to avoid anyone who might bump into him and ruin the entire endeavor. The ride up to his floor was long, but he didn’t allow his confidence to be shaken by the stretch of time. When the door slid open, he strode out with his head held high and made his way directly for Noct’s room.

King Regis sat in the chair beside the prince’s bed, per usual, his eyes dim with exhaustion as he watched his son sleep on. It had been over two weeks, and still there was no sign of improvement. What had once been whispers about Noct’s condition had grown louder; word around the Citadel had it that he was past all hope and the king should prepare himself for the inevitable. Ignis, however, was unconvinced. Although Noct hadn’t woken, he also hadn’t regressed, and that was something. Besides, what cruelty must there be in a person’s heart to so callously indicate that a father should simply _move on_? What darkness must a person harbor to believe that such a thing was likely—nay, _possible_? The only comfort in the matter was that for as many who said King Regis needed to let go, even more sympathized with his plight. Ignis’s own uncle, also a retainer in the Citadel, had stated it plainly mere days earlier:

No parent should have to bury their child.

 _He won’t have to_ , Ignis told himself firmly, straightening his shoulders against the weight of the atmosphere in the prince’s room. Noct was strong—amongst other things—and wouldn’t succumb to this fate so easily, not when there were people waiting for him. Of that, Ignis was positive.

So, he cleared his throat courageously, and King Regis took a deep breath as he turned to grace Ignis with a smile. It was a brittle, frail thing, but it was also a step in the right direction.

“Forgive me for intruding, Your Majesty,” apologized Ignis with a bow, balancing the plate between his hands so the meal didn’t end up on the floor.

“It is never an intrusion,” the king reassured him. Once Ignis straightened his posture, he gestured toward the usual chair on the other side of the bed, although his eyes caught on Ignis’s burden. He raised an eyebrow in silent question.

All of a sudden, Ignis’s concerns from earlier plowed to the forefront of his mind with renewed vigor. What if the king was insulted by his offering? What if it wasn’t good enough for his royal palate? What if he rebuked him for eavesdropping? What if, what if, what if—

“What is that you have there, Ignis?”

Blinking, he forced his gaze up to meet King Regis’s eyes and swallowed hard, but there was no derision in the king’s tone. Not an ounce of reproach stared back at him, and although it did nothing to assuage _all_ of his fears, it did give him the strength to venture forward into uncharted territory.

“I-if Your Majesty will p-permit me…” Ignis hesitated, clearing the fear from his throat and trying again. “W-when I came earlier, I couldn’t help but overhear Master Clarus saying that…that Your Majesty hadn’t eaten today. I… I know it’s not much, but—“

“Come here, Ignis.”

It was all he could do not to flinch at the king’s interruption, though his shoulders raised a few protective inches toward his ears regardless. It was rather silly: he _knew_ the king was an understanding, kind man. He _knew_ that if he was going to be rebuked, it would not be detrimental to his station. He _knew_ that.

Then why did his steps falter?

_Come on, now. There’s no need for that._

After a few aborted attempts to approach King Regis, he was finally able to make his feet cooperate with the rest of his body and was soon standing before the latter, who had yet to say a word all the while. Ignis could do nothing more than stare down at his pitiful offering, suddenly realizing just how ridiculous it looked when the king was used to all manner of sophisticated and enticing meals.

_You’re a fool, Ignis._

He expected to hear it or one of many variations any moment now. If he were standing beside one of his instructors, it undoubtedly would have happened before he’d entered the room. King Regis was too kind for that, but even he had his limits. Surely, he would reach it any second.

At that moment, when Ignis was quite certain that nothing more than terror and obedience to his king kept him rooted to the spot, a hand reached out and plucked one of the sushi rolls from the plate. Ignis’s head shot up, and he stared openmouthed as King Regis held the bundle of eatables between his thumb and forefinger, examining it the way a jeweler might a diamond.

“Garula sirloin?” he inquired curiously, not a shred of disdain coloring his tone.

Taken aback, Ignis stammered, “The con-consistency would suggest s-so, Your Majesty.”

King Regis hummed thoughtfully before downing the sushi in one go. Ignis’s eyes went wide and he quite nearly dropped the plate in surprise. The king had _actually_ eaten it! And he didn’t immediately spit it out!

That was what Ignis called a win.

“Is… Is it all right, Your Majesty?” he inquired meekly after receiving no reaction from the king but a pensive look of concentration. Blinking, the latter glanced back at him and swallowed his mouthful.

“Far better than _all right_ ,” confirmed King Regis with a grin brighter than any Ignis had seen from him in days. “There was salt in the rice?”

What strange alternate reality had he entered for the king to be impressed by _his_ cooking? Wherever it was, he hardly wanted to leave anytime soon.

“It gave more flavor to the seaweed.”

“Inventive.”

Hazarding a smile, Ignis inclined his head so far he may as well have bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I must admit, I was unaware that cooking was a part of your current field of study,” the king commented, waving a hand toward Ignis’s usual chair. He hastened to accept the silent invitation before he answered.

“It isn’t. My uncle taught me, Your Majesty.”

That appeared to intrigue King Regis, and he nodded in approval. “Is that so? It is quite a feat for one so young. Your uncle must be quite the instructor.” Ignis nodded his agreement, a smile again twitching in the corner of his lips as the king chuckled under his breath and added, “I do not believe my son can manage a _sandwich_ on his own.”

Ignis tried very hard to school the grimace that twisted his features into something more neutral but evidently didn’t do an immaculate job of it if the king’s wry expression was any indication. With as much tact as he could muster, he ventured, “He can…with debatable results.”

For the first time in weeks, the king truly _laughed_. It wasn’t a halfhearted show of humor, either, but the kind of amusement that started from the stomach and reverberated out from there. Ignis couldn’t and wouldn’t repress the surge of pride he felt for having been the one to give him that.

As the king regained his composure (and gently took Noct’s limp hand in his, Ignis didn’t fail to observe), he fondly sighed, “Then let us be grateful that you have such talent in the kitchen. His very life may one day depend on your ability to conjure a decent meal.”

That, oddly enough, had crossed Ignis’s mind on approximately _zero_ occasions. The prince would have an entire staff of professional chefs to cook anything his heart desired; his need for Ignis in that regard would be unlikely at best, although it certainly couldn’t hurt to know a thing or two just in case.

It wasn’t as though he would be telling King Regis that, however, so he nodded and promised, “I shall do my best to accommodate him, Majesty.”

The smile the king leveled at him was warm and proud, though not without a hint of mischief just beneath the surface that Ignis wasn’t used to seeing. He wasn’t quite sure what it was hiding until—

“Perhaps…there might be a way to slip a few vegetables between the layers of this sushi unnoticed?”

 

***

 

Ignis was neck deep in an essay on the proper storage of magic flasks when the messenger came. Well, in a sense—in reality, he had been staring out the window for much of the last hour, pondering whether the chill in the air was a sign of coming autumn or simply a divine reaction to what was happening inside the Citadel. As the days marched on with no relief from their endless vigil over the prince, Ignis was becoming increasingly unsure of which was more likely.

For his part, he had tried to remain positive and productive. There was plenty to keep him occupied: training with Gladio at least twice a week, standard lessons each day, and cooking sessions with his uncle were but a few of the duties that filled so many of the interminable hours. He had even left the Citadel for a day to accompany his uncle to a few of the shops in town. The fresh air had done him good, especially since he hadn’t been able to remember the last time he’d smelled it before misfortune had befallen the prince. There was still the nagging, gnawing guilt, however, that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be all the while. So much of his time was spent within the walls of the Citadel, in the vicinity of his charge and friend should the unimaginable occur. To have departed for even a few hours left a bad taste in his mouth and an urgency in his steps.

Nothing had gone awry in his absence, however. Noct was as he had been for weeks now when they returned, as was the king. If the prince did pass on—not that Ignis thought he _would_ , but in the _hypothetical event_ that he did—he expected someone would have the scene immortalized in a portrait or slab of marble: a father watching over his child, still as the stone they were carved out of. The thought occurred to him so frequently that he couldn’t help but picture it in his mind’s eye every time he passed the antechamber to the throne room, where so many works of art were already on display. They were old masterpieces, foretelling of doom and suffering descending upon them as often as they depicted peace amongst their people. How fitting, then, for such a tragic scene to be displayed alongside the rest.

But it wasn’t going to happen. At least, that was what Ignis kept telling himself right up until the moment that the king’s messenger announced that King Regis had need of his presence.

The moment he heard those words, Ignis felt his heart fall from its perch in his chest down into the boiling inferno his stomach had erupted into even as he stood steadily and moved toward the door. All he could think was that this was it: the king was beckoning to him so that he could say his final goodbyes to the friend whose life and destiny had been extinguished far too soon. What other use could the king have for him? If anything, he was surprised to be allowed to join in the king’s grief so soon. He’d only just checked in two hours prior, and at that time, the prince was still breathing. That the end could have arrived in such a short spell was… There were simply no words.

Ignis felt like he was gliding through a dream as he entered the elevator and pressed the button that would take him to a residential hall bereft of the light that had once illuminated its greatness. Nothing felt real—not the cool plastic beneath his finger or the air filtering into and out of his lungs—and for the briefest moment, Ignis wondered if perhaps _he_ was the one who no longer existed. Such a thing would be far preferable to the dreadful end that Noctis had come to. Such a thing would have been his _job_.

If he could save Noct’s life—if he could _trade_ his life for the prince’s…

There was no use entertaining the notion. There was no magic that could turn back the clock and allow him to change what had happened, nor were there any guarantees that he could have done it at all. If he’d agreed to go with Noct that day, been there when the daemon had attacked… Maybe things would be different, but they may very well have ended up exactly the same.

His duty to the prince wasn’t over just yet, though, he realized as he stopped mere feet from the open door to the prince’s temporary sepulcher. Noct’s disbelief in his father’s affection notwithstanding, he wouldn’t have wanted the king to suffer upon his death. He was too kind for such hateful thoughts, and Ignis’s duty now was to see to it that the king could grieve his son in peace. Perhaps it was an arrogant idea to think that it was his job when King Regis had so many loyal retainers and friends to do the same for him, but if Ignis’s charge had passed from this world, he would do his damnedest to see to it that he stayed strong for those who were left behind—including himself.

So, with straight shoulders and a heavy heart, Ignis bravely took those final steps towards the end of all things.

The scene he found was laid out exactly as he’d expected: King Regis had abandoned his chair in favor of a seat on the bed, leaning against the headboard with Noct held tightly in his arms. Tears ran uninhibited down his cheeks for the first time Ignis had ever seen, and that was how he knew it was truly over. The droplets of grief dripped from the end of the king’s chin, catching in Noct’s hair and sparkling like diamonds against his black locks. Eyes closed like those of his son, the king didn’t appear to realize that Ignis had entered the room. The latter hardly blamed him: something far more important was at hand.

Noctis… It was so difficult to believe that he was gone. His pallid complexion was tinged with color in places, and the dark rings around his eyes had faded a bit to leave him looking healthier than he had since his injury. His hair hung lank for lack of a bath, but it made him no less beautiful in death. What cruel irony were the gods capable of to allow him to appear healthy and whole when nothing could be further from the truth?

Ignis let out a sharp, angry exhale at the unfairness of it all, and the king opened his eyes to survey him where he remained in the doorway. For an instant, Ignis had no idea what he would say. Should he offer his condolences? Should he say nothing lest he overstep a boundary King Regis had been far too lax on in the face of recent events?

The decision was taken out of his hands when, upon closer inspection, he realized the eyes gazing back at him weren’t those of a grieving father—far from it. They were calm and clear despite the tears making them glisten in the slowly fading sunlight filtering in through the window. There was _hope_ in their depths.

Ignis felt his breath catch in his throat as King Regis blinked back his tears, the task of speaking appearing to be nearly too much for him in that moment.

“I must apologize,” he eventually managed, his lower lip trembling as he fought to control his emotions. “I had hoped he would still be awake when you arrived.”

_…Awake?!_

Indeed, as his eyes fell back to the prince where he was curled up in the king’s arms, he noticed the one thing he hadn’t when he’d been too busy surveying Noct’s face: his left hand rested on King Regis’s chest, clutching the fabric of his suit jacket tightly in his tiny fist.

“He…woke up?” Ignis heard himself asking as if from the other end of a long tunnel. His voice echoed off the cavernously empty walls of his mind and bounced back at him in a million different tones—despair, elation, trepidation, excitement, concern, contentment, apprehension, relief. King Regis seemed to hear them all.

“He woke up,” he confirmed. His relief was palpable, and yet he sounded as though he could hardly believe the words even as he spoke them. Ignis could understand the sentiment: it had been _so long_ , and many had resigned themselves to the worst. Much as Ignis had tried to keep his thoughts in check—much as the king had spoken of hope and healing—there was still a sense of unreality about the situation. Until Noct’s eyes were open once more, Ignis could scarcely allow himself to believe it.

Which was why he didn’t return to his studies that day. He assumed that the king must have sent word to his instructors at the same time he’d called for Ignis, because he received no summons or scolding for his truancy. It wouldn’t have mattered even if he had: his place was beside the prince, so he was simply fulfilling that duty.

That was what he told himself, anyway.

The day stretched on until evening fell to night’s embrace, the darkness outside doing nothing to quell the way Ignis’s muscles twitched with anticipation. Unlike the king, he was unable to sit in silent stillness as he usually could, and his leg bounced up and down while he waited for something— _anything_ that would tell him Noct truly _was_ past the worst of things.

King Regis, on the other hand, was a statue weathering the storm of emotions that had thrown Ignis into the maelstrom. Despite how uncomfortable the position must have grown over the passing hours, he remained where he’d been sitting since Ignis arrived, holding Noct as though the gods themselves might seek to snatch his son from his arms. Now and again, he would vacillate between running a hand through Noct’s raven hair and rocking him back and forth, looking for all the world like a man who had just recently stepped away from the edge.

Ignis envied the king’s composure. _He_ was still hovering over the void.

Midnight had long since come and gone before Noct finally stirred, snuggling deeper into King Regis’s chest and whimpering in pain. It took a moment for Ignis to realize that he had shifted his legs beneath the covers, one of which was still bandaged and stitched together, and he flinched at the notion that Noct should wake up after so long only to feel the discomfort he’d been avoiding all this time.

The thought fled his mind half a second later, however, when the blue eyes he thought he’d never see again drifted open. They were disoriented and bleary, but they were _there_ , and Ignis felt…he felt…

“Dad?” Noct whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Why’s Specs crying?”

King Regis had no answer to give through his own tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness! I had hoped to have this up last night, but something came up.
> 
> A few brief notes on this chapter:  
> 1\. I actually did not intend to quote "Lord of the Rings," but I could find no better way to say it than Theoden's words: "No parent should have to bury their child."  
> 2\. The line about saving and trading a life is once again inspired by "It's Quiet Uptown" from "Hamilton." Really, if you haven't yet listened to that song, I would recommend it.  
> 3\. Yes, _mystery meat sushi_ is an actual dish Ignis can make in the game, if you haven't found it yet. I got a good laugh out of it when I found that one, and I couldn't help thinking that it sounded like the sort of thing a ten-year-old would make to seem fancy. Thus, it had a cameo!
> 
> As I have before, I'd like to thank you all for the wonderful feedback! Whether you've been leaving kudos or comments, bookmarks, or just reading from the furthest reaches of the internet, I appreciate your support and hope I am still creating something you find enjoyable. At this point, this entry in the series may be increased to five chapters rather than four, but I have to see how the next one pans out first. Regardless, there will be plenty more to come!


	4. Shattered Remains

It was truly remarkable just how many times Ignis heard the same platitude: _children were resilient_. All the adults around the Citadel were of the mind that youth made a person more flexible, able to bounce back even in the face of the direst circumstances. They would breathe a sigh of relief, wave off a concern, and simply state that it was a matter of time before everything went back to normal. Children were miracles in more ways than one, and their propensity for recovery was their most admirable trait in the opinion of those who had long since lost the advantage.

If that were true, Ignis supposed Noct must be the exception to the rule.

The weeks that followed the prince’s awakening were perhaps the most difficult Ignis had ever spent in the Citadel, and that was including those awkward first days when he had no idea where to find the restroom on each floor. Noctis had always been a lively child, prone to fits of boredom that usually ended in energetic adventures wherever and whenever he could manage them; more often than not, Ignis had to remind Noct that they both had obligations, none of which would be fulfilled if he kept talking in the middle of their studies. His pleas for silence frequently fell on deaf ears, though. It wasn’t that Noct was malicious in his complete disregard for Ignis’s wishes: he was simply bursting at the seams with spirit, something Ignis both admired and lamented multiple times throughout a given day.

Now, however, things were different. Noct didn’t speak anymore. At all. He rarely made eye contact with anyone aside from King Regis, who was growing increasingly perplexed and anxious by the day at his son’s radical change in behavior. At first, the doctors thought it was nothing more than an adjustment to being conscious again, not that it made much sense to Ignis. Noct had been comatose—he hardly would have noticed he wasn’t awake, much less needed time to adjust to being so. It was difficult to tamp down his vindication when the days continued to pass with no improvement in Noct’s demeanor, but his concern quickly eclipsed it as the silence within the prince’s room stretched on.

It didn’t help that, as the doctors had claimed what felt like ages before, Noct couldn’t walk. He wasn’t paralyzed the way they had originally feared he may be, but his legs weren’t able to hold his weight regardless. He’d tried to stand only once, the day after he’d woken up, and found himself on the floor in a matter of seconds before anyone in the room could catch him.

For all his various forms of open expression, Noct had never been the crying kind. Not until that day.

Ever since, Ignis had been trying _everything_ he could fathom to bring back the boy he called his friend. It was no easy task, especially when his instructors still expected him to attend his lessons—something Ignis simply couldn’t comprehend. His job was to advise the future king; it was literally his duty to be there for Noct in the most trying of circumstances to see him through to whatever end he reached. Why, then, did the same instructors who had informed him of this insist on taking him from the one place where he was honor-bound to remain? Voicing that opinion, of course, was a recipe for disaster, so he spent his lessons in sullen silence and unloaded his frustrations on Gladio during their training sessions together whenever he could. The future Shield was a good listener, albeit a slightly less sympathetic one than Ignis would have hoped for, and kindly let him vent his aggressions in the safest environment possible. It didn’t help, but it was a start.

Each day saw Ignis falling into something of a new routine: wake up, check on Noct, go to his lessons, check on Noct, attend his afternoon training, check on Noct, and go to bed only to repeat the process in the morning. As his schedule became standard, his heart fell even further in his chest to find that no amount of time with Noct ever made things better. They sat in strained stillness, the prince curled up beneath the covers while Ignis read to him or spoke in endless circles about his own day to fill the chasm so deep between them that it may have been carved by the gods.

The only thing that seemed to bridge the gap was the growing emergence of a strange and tenuous bond that they’d never had need of before, and communication—if not conversation—became easier. Over the course of a few days, he quickly began to understand the new language Noct was speaking, one that it appeared very few others were privy to:

Hiding his face beneath the covers so that only his eyes were visible—reluctance.

A blink—curiosity.

Turning his head into the pillow—amusement.

A frown—displeasure.

More and more nuances of his behavior formed as the days became weeks and rapidly approached a month since he’d returned to them. Despite his frequent absence and uneasiness with the sudden alteration of everything that had once been commonplace, Ignis savored each one: he’d gotten his wish in Noct’s survival, so it wasn’t his place to complain about the changes his friend’s experience had wrought in him. Ignis knew his duty included understanding the future king even without words, and he would make good on that responsibility here and now.

That didn’t make it any less heartbreaking to see King Regis’s smile waver when his bedtime stories were met with timid, almost stony silence, though.

Unlike Ignis, the king was rarely away from Noct’s bedside. Now that the prince was awake, there were a few duties that could no longer be pushed aside, but otherwise, he was as constant a figure in Noct’s room as he had been during his son’s early convalescence. That, more than anything else, was one of the reasons Ignis didn’t tell his instructors where they could stick their lessons (a phrase Gladio had taught him when they were _supposed_ to be sparring): the king was with Noct when he couldn’t be, and that was the next best thing.

The greatest comfort of his presence, however, stemmed from the fact that King Regis was the only one Noct would suffer to touch him. The prince who thrived on casual contact was long gone, leaving a frightened, distant boy in his place. Every time the doctors tried to examine his wounds, he would recoil to the furthest corner of the mattress and curl up beneath the covers as though they were nothing more than extensions of the daemon who had attacked him. Even Ignis, who had frequently served as his personal trampoline in addition to his future adviser, wasn’t exempt. It took no time at all for him to notice the way the prince flinched away when Ignis would reach out to squeeze his good shoulder comfortingly. After the first few attempts, he’d abandoned the endeavor altogether.

King Regis, however, was the exception. Many a night found them in the same position as when Noct had awoken, the king propped up on pillows with the prince tucked against his chest. Neither of them got much sleep—Noct was plagued by nightmares and King Regis remained awake to watch over him—but the king was never absent in the dark hours of the night, regardless of what duty dictated he must do during the day. Relief always filled Ignis at the sight: when his father was present, the tense set of Noct’s shoulders eased and his eyes weren’t filled with the distant panic Ignis had watched become the new normal in quiet moments.

Thus, the days passed. Ignis maintained his routine because there was nothing else he could do, although the few moments of free time he had were now spent in adamant pursuance of answers—how could he ease the prince’s recovery? Perhaps there was no bringing back the lively, smiling boy he’d been before his injury, but surely there was no harm in trying. It would have been easier if all his ideas weren’t immediate and obvious failures, though.

Anything requiring movement was stricken from the list. Not only couldn’t Noct so much as get out of bed on his own, but offering a literal helping hand wasn’t likely to be met with an enthusiastic reception.

Reading hadn’t worked. Ignis had _severely_ downgraded his standards and taken to presenting Noct with the comics he so loved—then, when that didn’t produce a response, _picture books_ , as had always been the prince’s preference—to no avail. If Noct was listening, he offered no sign of it as he stared into the distance in eerie blankness.

The only attempt that had garnered even the _slightest_ reaction from Noct had been when Ignis brought one of the cats that frequently wandered around the Citadel to his room (after a rather ridiculous three-hour chase around the grounds in which the sharp-clawed little devil refused to be captured). His eyes had momentarily lit up from where they peeked out at him beneath the covers, just before the doctor indicated that no animals were allowed in the vicinity for fear that Noct’s wounds were still susceptible to infection. Ignis wasn’t sure the prince’s spirit could have been dowsed any more effectively if it had been a flame under water.

With every failed attempt, Ignis could find very little in the way of things that could be done within the confines of the prince’s bedroom. It was a stark reminder that, awake or not, Noct _wasn’t_ healthy. His injury caused him a great deal of pain, and Ignis had overheard the doctors whispering to each other on more than one occasion that they had expected the slices hidden beneath his bandages to have healed more quickly. Restless nights left him exhausted and pallid, but despite his former love of sleep, he fought his traitorous eyelids every time they drooped during one of his father’s stories nonetheless. Every passing day was the same, and improvement was torturously slow if it came at all.

It was almost alarming just how frequently Ignis wondered if Noct hadn’t been better off comatose.

“So, what are you gonna do about it?” inquired Gladio when Ignis was finished raining hell on him with a wooden sword. He had gotten better at weaponless combat, but his frustrations were better served when he had something to swing.

Huffing an angry breath, Ignis slid down to sit against the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest as he testily replied, “What makes you think there’s anything I _can_ do?”

Gladio raised an eyebrow but, rather than addressing his rudeness, came to sit beside him with a shrug. “You know ‘im better than anyone, right?”

“I suppose. He’s not the same Noct I know.”

“Did’ja think he _would_ be?”

Frowning, Ignis didn’t bother to answer. It honestly hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d been so busy worrying over whether the prince would survive at all that he hadn’t considered how things would change if he did. Gladio seemed to understand without Ignis having to say a word, and he leaned his head back against the wall with a pondering expression.

“Maybe start with something small.”

Ignis scoffed. “Such as?”

“I don’t know—I’ve never met the guy. What’s he like?”

“Video games.” When Gladio opened his mouth, Ignis cut him off, “He won’t play them.”

Nodding slowly, Gladio thought for a moment before suggesting, “Why don’t you play ‘em and he can watch? Show him what he’s missing out on.”

“You’ve obviously never seen me try to play a video game.” The handful of times he’d attempted to had ended in disaster for him and endless hours of amusement for Noct.

 _On second thought, perhaps that’s not such a bad idea…_ He would log it away to try later.

“And the cat thing didn’t work?”

“The doctors made me shower twice before they were sufficiently satisfied that I wasn’t carrying unnecessary germs.”

“Ouch.”

“Indeed.”

They both fell silent after that, and Ignis sighed heavily. He knew taking care of Noct was unlikely to be an easy job—he’d been prepared for that from the very first day of his tutelage—but he hadn’t anticipated that it would be so difficult to determine what he needed. Wasn’t _that_ supposed to be simple?

“My old man said nothing’s ever simple when you’re dealing with royalty,” answered Gladio, alerting Ignis to the fact that he’d unintentionally voiced his thoughts aloud.

Grimacing through his embarrassment, he remarked, “Master Clarus would know better than anyone.”

“You’re damn right.”

With that, Gladio rose to his feet and held out a hand to help Ignis do the same. As he moved to grab his change of clothing, he casually commented, “You could always try Cup Noodles. That always cheers me right up.”

Ignis froze in place, eyes wide. It took one second—two—

“That’s _it_!”

Whirling around, he grabbed Gladio by the shoulders and shook him in excitement, the latter staring at him as though he’d grown three spare heads. “Uh…I was _joking_ , but…”

“You’re still a genius!” exclaimed Ignis, giving him one last shake before grabbing his things and sprinting out the door. He heard Gladio shout something after him, but he didn’t pause to listen. He had an idea!

The Citadel was crowded this time of day on average, but space was definitely limited today since the king was holding court in the throne room. That wasn’t enough to stop Ignis, however, and he ducked through the throng of Kingsglaive guards and council members and press representatives and all the people who stood between him and his plan as he dashed through the halls toward the kitchens.

Unlike the areas open to the public, he found himself alone when he arrived at his destination. Lunch had been hours ago and there was still plenty of time left before the chefs would start preparing dinner, which meant Ignis had the entire place at his disposal. That was probably for the best: if an _actual_ chef spotted him, he would undoubtedly be in a world of trouble.

Ignis unceremoniously dumped his bag and spare clothes on the floor by the first work station and hurried to the refrigerator without bothering to change out of his slightly sweaty training gear. He paused for the briefest second, wondering if maybe it would be best to take a shower first, but he banished the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. There was only a very short span of time available to him, and he wasn’t about to waste a moment—washing his hands would be sufficient.

One of the amazing things about living in the Citadel during his training was that he had full access to an impressively stocked kitchen. Oftentimes, it never made much of a difference to him; he would eat whatever was placed in front of him gratefully, whether he liked it or not. Having a million different things to choose from was ideal for his task, however, and that was what mattered.

As his brain worked in overdrive to create the perfect dish, Ignis dug through the endless possibilities with only one parameter in mind: _no vegetables_. He was trying to cheer Noct up, not send him running for the proverbial hills. Tomatoes, beans, and peppers all got shifted to the side—potatoes were okay—meat was fine, but fish was better.

The sun was beginning to set by the time Ignis had decided and managed to put the ingredients together into something edible. At least, he sincerely _hoped_ it was edible; he was positive that he had forgotten every rule of cooking his uncle had ever taught him, and he’d definitely neglected to obey the _First Commandment of the Kitchen_ —clean as you go. Instead, there were eggshells piled up in the sink, pans scattered over every surface, dried rice littering the countertops… And that was just the _kitchen_.

If his workspace was a mess, the dish was hardly any better. In his haste, mistakes had been made and adjustments were necessary, but they were less than attractive. He’d used too much water in steaming the rice, which turned it into more of a soggy mush than anything else, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that his fried eggs had somehow turned into _scrambled_ eggs. Curry had _seemed_ like a good idea to add some flavor at the time, but the result was too spicy for the prince’s sensitive palate, so Ignis had _brilliantly_ deemed garula broth as the solution. By the time he was finished, what had started out as a rice bowl turned into some kind of strange curry soup concoction Ignis was too afraid to try.

But try it he did—because he wasn’t a _heathen_ who would feed something to his prince without _testing_ it first—and it was…okay. Better than okay, really. In fact, it was rather… _good_. Ignis could only stare at the dish for a moment, utterly thunderstruck, before he was able to shake himself from his surprise.

_Well. I suppose I’ve come up with a new recipe._

Humming thoughtfully, Ignis set the bowl of pseudo-soup on a tray and cast only a momentary glance over his shoulder at the mess he’d left in his wake. Dinner service was rapidly approaching, but he was sure he’d have enough time to return everything to its spotless state beforehand. There were more important things right now.

When Ignis reached Noct’s room, the prince was alone. It was a rare thing these days, so Ignis was unspeakably glad that he hadn’t dawdled. Despite his distance, it was very clear that Noct was uncomfortable in solitude, and there was something akin to relief on his face upon seeing Ignis standing in the doorway.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ignis apologized with a meek smile. He lifted the bowl a little higher, catching Noct’s attention. “I brought you something to eat.”

His face turned a sallow shade of green almost immediately, and Ignis felt his heart crack down the middle in disappointment he had no right to feel. Among the many other changes, Noct hadn’t eaten much since waking up. Ignis wasn’t sure if it was that he had no appetite or if he simply couldn’t stomach heavier foods after being unconscious for so long; either way, mealtimes were some of the most trying.

_Perhaps it’s a good thing I made soup, then. Sort of._

Clearing his throat, Ignis tried not to let his smile falter as he approached the bed and set the tray beside Noct. The prince stared at it as though he wasn’t quite sure what was expected of him before glancing up and blinking hesitant blue eyes at Ignis.

_Right._

“It’s…curry. In a sense,” he hastened to indicate, frowning at his own description. Could it really be called that when he’d had to cover it up with broth? Twisting his face in disdain, Ignis waved off the explanation altogether and assured him, “It’s good. Trust me.”

Noct didn’t move for a long moment, continuing to stare at him and looking like he might have ducked back under the covers if it weren’t for the bowl of very hot soup balanced on his mattress. Then, just when Ignis had resigned himself to the fact that he would be eating his own invention for dinner, Noct slowly reached out a shaky hand and picked up the spoon as though it might bite him. (Of course, it could have been that he had to use his left hand rather than his dominant, injured right, but Ignis would be lying if he said his confidence wasn’t shaken.)

Whatever it was, his fingers trembled slightly around the utensil as he dipped it into the broth and brought what had to be the most pitifully tiny excuse for a spoonful up to his lips. Ignis wasn’t sure when he’d started holding his breath, but he was helpless to ease the pressure in his chest from lack of oxygen when he couldn’t see Noct’s expression.

 _It’s terrible. He hates it. I_ should _have just tried Cup Noodles…_

Ignis opened his mouth to apologize and beg forgiveness for tormenting his already tortured friend when Noct lifted his head and met Ignis’s eyes. The slightest ghost of a smile turned up one side of his lips as he sniffled and proceeded to eat the whole bowl, Ignis staring openmouthed the entire time.

He didn’t even care that he was scolded and tasked with mopping the floors in the kitchens every day for the next month. It was worth it.

 

***

 

“I don’t think we have another option, Clarus.”

“Your Majesty knows the risks involved. If you venture into Tenebrae and the Empire realizes you are there…”

“I recognize that, as does the Oracle.”

“And she is satisfied that the arrangement will be safe?”

“She has promised the highest level of security they can provide. The rest is in the hands of the gods.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it, Cor. You need only see it done.”

“…Yes, Your Majesty.”

Ignis dove away from the door to Noct’s room just in time to avoid the appearance of eavesdropping as the Marshal strode past toward the elevators, his expression stormy and footsteps clipped in disapproval. Exchanging a quick glance with Noct, he settled back into his usual seat and retrieved the book he’d abandoned on the corner of Noct’s bed when they heard his father’s retinue approaching in the corridor. Ignis had never been one to pry, particularly within the Citadel when there were so many things he wasn’t meant to hear in the air, but Noct _had_. Part of Ignis’s duty was to do for the prince what he was unable to do for himself, however, so he gladly made the sacrifice until Noct was back on his feet.

It had absolutely nothing to do with his own curiosity. Nothing whatsoever.

He’d only just commenced reading from where he left off when King Regis entered the room, Master Clarus hovering on the threshold as the former moved into the other chair. Ignis couldn’t help noticing that while his expression indicated that nothing was wrong, his eyes told a different story. With a warm smile, the king leaned forward to press a kiss to Noct’s forehead and ruffle his hair affectionately.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Okay,” lied Noct quietly through his royal teeth.

Ignis refrained from sighing with great difficulty. The last couple of weeks had seen Noct emerging from his shell somewhat, at least enough to make eye contact with most visitors and say a few words every hour or so. It was a slow start, but it _was_ progress. Every day, the king asked how he was feeling; every day, Noct said he was okay. They all knew it was a false sentiment by now, more wishful thinking than reality. Physically, his limbs were stiff and aching more than he cared to let on; the only reason Ignis knew was because he frequently noticed the prince’s ill-concealed grimaces when he shifted beneath his covers. Besides that, he was still getting less sleep than was desirable, and Ignis constantly woke in the night to hear his screams of terror alongside his father’s soothing reassurances that he was all right. Everyone with access to Noct knew he was anything but _okay_ , yet until they had a viable solution to ease his suffering, no one would be cruel enough to rob the prince of his attempts at normality.

As it happened, they didn’t get much opportunity to do so today. Noct’s eyes flashed with something wary and anxious Ignis had never seen before as he blurted out, “You’re leaving?”

The king blinked, frowning. “Of course not. What makes you think that?”

When Noct didn’t answer, his store of verbal communication apparently exhausted for today, Ignis tentatively explained, “My apologies, Majesty, but…w-we couldn’t help overhearing…” He gestured vaguely towards the door, where Master Clarus shook his head in thinly veiled amusement. The king, too, was unable to restrain his smile.

“I’m sure you couldn’t. No need for apologies,” King Regis interrupted when Ignis began to apologize again, his eyes kind and forgiving. “We were not aiming for secrecy. And in answer to your question,” he remarked, turning back to Noct and taking his hand, “ _I’m_ not leaving— _we_ are.”

Noct frowned in confusion, and Ignis found himself carefully closing the book in his lap. There was no need to maintain appearances anymore.

The king smiled at both of them before continuing, “I have an old acquaintance who lives in Tenebrae. She is the Oracle—do you remember, I told you about her?”

Slowly, Noct nodded, although Ignis could tell the gravity of the Oracle’s position was lost on him. Meanwhile, Ignis felt as though someone had just dug a knife between his ribs and _twisted_ it. He found it impossible _not_ to recognize the implications of the king’s plan.

They thought Noct wouldn’t get better. Perhaps they even believed he would get worse.

That was the only reason Ignis could see for visiting the Oracle when she resided on what was essentially an island in the middle of enemy territory. It was the only reason Ignis could see for visiting the Oracle _at all_ , regardless of her situation. In his studies, he had learned much about the Oracle’s role as not only one who communed with the gods on humanity’s behalf, but also as a healer of ailments impervious to mortal remedies. People from all over Eos made pilgrimages to Fenestala Manor to be cured of impossible illnesses.

And now, it appeared that the king and prince of Lucis would be amongst their ranks.

“Everything has already been arranged,” King Regis was telling Noct when Ignis tuned back in to the conversation. “We leave the day after tomorrow.”

Noct shifted uncomfortably, wincing slightly when his stitches pulled. “How long’re we gonna be gone?”

“I expect no more than two weeks.” The king paused, seeming to notice his son’s discomfort, and added, “You will have no shortage of company while we are there. The Oracle has a young daughter only a few years older than you.”

Which meant Ignis would be staying at the Citadel. A spark of cold fire erupted in his chest, and it was all he could do not to request leave to join them. The king had already offered him a great deal of latitude ever since Noct’s injury and had allowed Ignis every opportunity to remain by the prince’s side; if he hadn’t made arrangements for Ignis to accompany them, there must have been a reason. Still, that didn’t mean Ignis had to like it, and the unfairness welled up in his chest like a beast desperate to escape. Ignis bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to remember his place: _he_ wasn’t the prince, nor did he have a right to resent the king’s actions. His job was to listen, to learn—not to demand. That was the royal burden placed upon him, the burden _he_ had agreed to shoulder.

So, when Noct appeared to finally reach the same conclusion and whipped his head around to stare at Ignis with wide, upset eyes, Ignis did his duty: he smiled over the bitterness in his very soul and promised to have a new recipe prepared for when the prince returned.

On the day of their departure, Ignis did his duty: he pushed Noct’s wheelchair down to the doors of the Citadel, where the Kingsglaive and King Regis were waiting.

When Noct took his hand and graced him with their first touch since before his injury, Ignis did his duty: he squeezed those tiny fingers in his own and wished him a speedy recovery.

As King Regis carried Noct down the stairs to the car, the prince’s eyes lingering on Ignis even as the tinted windows obscured his face from view, Ignis did his duty: he smiled, he waved, and he prepared to wait for his prince to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! I considered adding a fifth chapter involving what happens in Tenebrae, but I didn't want to take emphasis away from Ignis as this is, after all, his story. You can expect to see that in a separate story, as well as what happens after Noct gets back to Lucis. 
> 
> A few notes on the content of this chapter:  
> 1\. The impact of Noct's injury on his character is outlined in the "Parting Ways" prologue. In a conversation with Ignis as they're preparing to pack his things for the trip to Altissia, they discuss the fact that after the daemon encounter, Noct didn't speak much and went from being a "lively" child to quiet and withdrawn. The novel also mentions that Ignis always tried to get Noct to read, but that Noct preferred picture books. In the "Brotherhood" anime and "Kingsglaive," you also see his injuries and that he requires a wheelchair at this time. Finally, the Ultimania and official guide indicate that although Tenebrae was under the empire's rule long before Noct was born, Fenestala Manor (home to the Oracle's family) remained independent until Noct and Regis visit after his injury.  
> 2\. I had to put the "new recipe" line in there. HAD to. Forgive me.  
> 3\. The same goes for the Cup Noodles.  
> 4\. This is more of an editor's note, but I've noticed AO3's spellchecker doesn't recognize certain words that _are_ in U.S. dictionaries but not U.K. Please note that everything is edited in line with U.S. grammar and spelling standards, so they aren't typos! (Unless you see an obvious typo, in which case, please let me know!)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and all your wonderful comments and support! In many ways, this was much more difficult to write than "What Lies Between" because it isn't really part of the game. I hope you've all enjoyed it and will continue to stick with this series as we wander into uncharted territory for the next installment: a little look at the Man of No Consequence. 
> 
> Until next time, walk tall, my friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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